She held out her hand. He pressed it in his without saying a word, and without looking at her; then they separated. Fleurange longed to be alone. Clement went to fulfil her commission to his mother.
XLVI.
It was the professor's regular hour of repose in the latter part of the morning. Everything was quiet around him. His wife was seated at her wheel in the next room ready to answer the slightest call; for Madame Dornthal knew how to handle the spindle, and, in accordance with a custom kept up longer in Germany than anywhere else, had spun with her own hands the two finest pieces of linen for her daughter's trousseau. She looked up as her son entered, and saw by his face that something agitated him. She gave him an inquiring look.
“I wish to speak to you, mother,” said he, in a low tone. “Let us go where we can talk freely.”
Madame Dornthal stopped spinning, immediately rose, and, ordering a young servant to take her place and call her if needed, she followed her son, softly closing the door behind her.
The opposite door, on the same corridor, opened into Clement's chamber. They went there. Clement began to relate the conversation he had just had. His first words were met by an exclamation of surprise, after which Madame Dornthal listened without interrupting him. Her face by turns expressed interest, pity, and admiration, as he spoke; and it was with tearful eyes and a faltering voice she finally replied:
“My consent and blessing, do you say? You ask them for her? Poor child! how can I refuse my blessing to such devotedness! But my consent,” she continued gravely—“I cannot give that unconditionally.”
“What! mother,” said Clement earnestly, “can you think of refusing to let her go?”
“No, dear Clement; but I can refuse to let you accompany her.”
Clement started. “Mother!” cried he with surprise.